


Better Together

by ellamequiere



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gratuitous Smut, M/M, Mild Kink, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-05
Updated: 2010-09-05
Packaged: 2018-03-19 01:33:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3591363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellamequiere/pseuds/ellamequiere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Russia and Prussia join England in the Coalition against France in 1813.  There are some formalities to take care of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better Together

“How many Coalitions is it now?” asked Prussia, lying on his back-- in his boots-- on England's bed. England's eyebrows twitched.

“Six,” he said, glaring stonily. 

“Holy shit, man, that's a lot of Coalitions.” England breathed in and out, slowly, and found himself wondering if he really needed the other nation's help. Torgau, said part of his mind. Jena-Auerstedt, said the other. He inhaled and exhaled again. Either way, said the most pragmatic part of his personality, he needed all the help he could get. Even if that help came in the form of-- “Seriously, what have you been doing all this time? Hasn't it been like, a decade?”

“Two,” said Russia, smiling sweetly.

England glared at the two of them. “You,” he said, gesturing at Prussia, “have fought for nineteen days in the last fifteen years. And you,” he said, turning to Russia. “Don't even get me started on you. If you had have joined us back in '93, we wouldn't even be in this situation.”

Russia's smile didn't waver. “Oh? I didn't realize you were wanting so badly for the imperial troupes of Mother Russia.”

England and Prussia shuddered in tandem. “Don't do that, man,” said Prussia. “It's creepy.”

Russia looked confused. “What have I done?”

“You... don't call yourself that, ok?”

“Call myself...?”

“Mother Russia.”

“I don't think I called myself Mother Russia.”

England had his face in his hands. “You did,” he said, muffled.

“Oh,” said Russia, unrepentant.

“Anyway,” said England. “Don't you two dare intimate that I haven't been making every effort. Do you have any idea how much this war has cost me?”

“Oh yeah,” said Prussia. “We know, you haven't gotten laid since '88.” England spluttered.

“Oh?” said Russia, looking genuinely confused. “What about Amiens?”

England slammed his fist down. “I have been at war nonstop since 1792--”

“Amie--”

“Enough about Amiens! What were you two doing? Staying home and playing with your dicks?”

“I think he's getting mad,” said Russia.

“Yeah, calm down, man.”

And in the end, what else could he do? He buried his face in his hands. “I hate you both.”

Prussia grinned at Russia. “Come on now, old man. We know you want us.”

“I want your support. If there were anyone else...”

“It's cool,” he said, putting his hands behind his head. “I don't mind being a replacement.” Russia nodded, placidly. “So, are we going to fuck or what?”

England sighed. It-- well, it had been part of the arrangement. It wasn't unheard of, for sex to be an element of an alliance agreement; he thought fondly of the Treaty of Paris, and less so of the Union of the Crowns. He had even been involved with more than one nation at once in this sort of situation, although never more than four, much to France's derision. It was really just... he sighed. He didn't want to sleep with Russia. They'd been in bed before, of course-- most of western Europe had, if not before the Nine Years' War, then definitely after-- and while he found, upon examination, that his memories of Russia in bed were mostly positive, he... it was about the coat. He just couldn't bring himself to think of someone in a trench coat in a sexual way.

“Russia-- Ivan.” It was only polite to use human names in bed, really. “Would you, perhaps-- would you take off your coat?”

The man smiled pleasantly, and complied. There was still something-- something off. Ah. “And the scarf, if you don't mind.”

A shadow crossed Russia's face, and it looked like he was about to argue, until Prussia interrupted. “Hey, you're gonna have to take it off anyway, man. I mean, I'm not watching you fuck him in that.” Pouting-- there was no other word for it-- Russia removed the scarf.

Better. He was... he had a, ah-- the physique wasn't bad. Even the face was alright, if one could discount the strange childishness of it. England recalled with a strange shiver how he'd felt cradled, safe, the last time Russia and he had been in bed. It was because of the man's height, he assured himself. Only the adolescent Germany could compete, and England-- well, the boy was too young still, the nascent personification of a newly-developing sense of national identity. His appearance was the beginning of the end for Prussia, they all knew it, and that might have been another reason that England stayed away from him.

Prussia-- England sighed. Loud, obnoxious, powerful Prussia. He'd lusted after him, in the beginning... so strong, so fast. Of course, the bird was a bit of a put-off, but no one was perfect, he was willing to overlook it (and how had the bird survived for so long, anyway? Was he, perhaps, replacing it periodically? A mystery.) But when he'd first slept with him, back when he was only a duchy, he'd discovered with dismay what most of Europe already knew: Prussia was selfish in bed. Every once in a while, something hard, fast, brutal-- England coughed delicately at the thought-- well, it had its charms. But that sort of thing gets tedious; he'd learned that from Scotland before Prussia had even earned his name. And frankly, with all the aches and pains plaguing his body from the long war, he wasn't really in the mood.

So when Prussia asked-- crudely-- “So, who goes first?” England felt, instead of vaguely and shamefully excited, simply tired. 

He was relieved, if vaguely piqued, when Russia held out him arms to him, and said, “Together, yes?” He hoped they meant beginning together rather than, well, finishing together, as while he had managed in the past, he didn't particularly feel up to taking both of them. But in the nation's arms, he found himself relaxing infinitesimally, and cursed his weakness for large men. 

Prussia seemed to share his uncertainty. “Together? That'd be gay.” The other two stared at him. “Uh. Right. I mean-- do you think he can take it?”

Russia waved his hands impatiently. “No, no, I meant-- let us touch him together. Then we will simply see what is natural.”

Prussia looked dubious. “I dunno, man, that sounds kinda--”

“Can we just get this over with?” England interrupted. 

Russia smiled. “Yes, let's begin.” Then he tilted England's face up, and kissed him. 

England's brain stuttered to a halt. Kissing wasn't-- it wasn't part of the routine. A little bit of touching, fine; a little unorthodox in this kind of situation, but fine. Kissing? No one kissed when they sealed alliances, except-- but he hadn't been allied with the man in so long, he barely remembered. 

He wasn't sure, but he thought that Russia kissed very differently from France or Spain. Slowly, patiently, no teasing or teeth. He was sure he'd been kissed like this before, he just wasn't sure when. Tired and aching, he couldn't bring himself to miss France's electricity, Spain's energy. Even Prussia's snort of disgust couldn't dampen his-- well, his enjoyment.

“Guys, come on, that's gross.”

England pulled away, and fixed him with a stare. “Simply because some of us are finicky about our partners, we mustn't all be squeamish prudes.”

“Squeamish? Prudes?” England ignored Prussia's sputtering, and kissed the other man again. Some part of his brain was full of blustering denial, but the rest of him-- the rest of him relaxed into the warmth, the safety. No one in their right mind would let themselves think of Russia as safe, but he'd defeated France when no one else could. He'd smiled, peacefully, as he sentenced Moscow to burn. He might be a raging psychopath, but for now-- for now, he could be trusted.

“Can we just fuck already?”

England growled. “Can we get rid of him?”

“No, you cannot get rid of me! I promised my armies, just like he did. I totally get a piece of your ass.”

“And a fat lot of good your armies did me last time,” spat England, irritated again by the whole situation.

As Prussia sputtered, Russia raised his arms, in what he clearly thought was a pacifying gesture. “Friends! We have agreed already. We will have a nice time--”

“We will have a nice time, he will lie back and take it like the little bitch he is--”

“We will have a nice time,” Russia repeated, loudly, “and then tomorrow we will go our separate ways and take care of little France.”

England and Prussia glared daggers at each other, as Russia tugged England back towards him. “Ignore him, yes? He will come around.” And just as England was about to relax, Russia grabbed a handful of his hair, and jerked his head back. “And then,” he breathed, against his lips, “and then we will have a nice time, yes?”

England, with a bad case of sexual whiplash, panted, and Prussia exhaled loudly and recrossed his hands behind his head. “Now that was hot.”

“Yes, yes, we all know where your interests lie,” said England, voice strained. Russia kissed his way down his throat, and then bit, hard, right above his trachea. England gave a strangled yell, and said, “That'll bruise, you cretin!”

Russia looked up at him, and smiled happily. “Yes, it will bruise very nicely.” England nearly shivered, aches forgotten. Prussia's hand slipped towards his waistband. 

Big fingers grabbed the same spot, and twisted. England closed his eyes, breathing harder than he wanted to be. How could Russia know, about his-- penchant-- for this? He couldn't have been talking to France. Could he? 

No matter how hard it made him, he wasn't just going to take it. He grabbed a handful of the other man's hair, and held as head still while he bit him back. Russia made a high, breathy noise, and Prussia let out a heartfelt “Fuck.”

“And this doesn't bother you?” asked England, hand still in Russia's hair. Prussia shrugged, not looking away from the white-purple teethmarks in Russia's throat. 

“He had it coming. Besides, it's not as girly as that freaky fag shit you were doing before.” England let it go.

Russia made little needy noises, and tilted his head back, already hard as hell against England's front. England wondered if, after all the messed up sex they'd had over the years, they didn't all have a little bit of a weakness for this. He thought of France again, and groaned. When he bit again, dragging his fingernails down the other man's neck, it wasn't Russia's gasp he was hearing.

He heard Prussia stand, and braced himself for the derisive, mood-shattering dig. It didn't come. Instead, the man moved behind him, and moved his hair out of the way, biting the back of his neck-- also hard enough to bruise, England noted with displeasure, but the thought was near the back of his mind. Russia was bit his collarbone, and England choked back a moan. Then Prussia's hands were under his shirt, fingernails cruel against his chest, and Russia's teeth were in his neck, and God, he was going to have a lot of explaining to do when he met his boss the next day.

“See?” said Russia, happily, centimeters from England's skin. “It's much nicer together.” 

Prussia, a catch in his voice, said “Shut up, fuckface.”

Russia smiled at England. “Prussia is being very rude. Don't you think Prussia is being rude?”

England opened his eyes, blearily. “What?”

“Prussia. Rude. Shall we bite him?”

England blinked. Prussia was backing away. “Oh no, no, no. This isn't my party. He's the one we're supposed to be messing up. If you want to let him mark you all up, that's your call, but stay the fuck away from--”

Russia pushed him down face first on England's bed, following him down, and purred “Shut up, slut.” England shook himself, the whiplash catching him again. Would the man ever choose a role and stick with it?

Wait. Was that a keen from Prussia? Oh, he was never going to let him live this down. 

Russia was still talking. “I was going to let you pretend, you know, that you weren't dying for this--” he pulled the smaller man's hips up against his own. The noise from Prussia this time was closer to a mewl. England was caught between the urge to groan and laugh. “--but you were just so rude. I hate it when you're rude. You know I hate that.” Prussia nodded, face against the bedspread. “Say you're sorry.” And he was moving against Prussia's ass, slow, tortuous.

“'M sorry,” mumbled Prussia into the bed. 

“I didn't hear you,” said Russia, in a singsong voice.

“I'm sorry,” said Prussia, more loudly. England could hardly believe it.

“That's good. I'm glad to hear that, Prussia. Now we can go back to England, yes?” And with that, Russia stood, walking away from the man on the bed. 

Prussia didn't move for a second. When he stoop up, he met England's eyes-- face red-- and hissed “Not. A. Word.” England raised his impressive eyebrows. If Prussia honestly thought he was going to let this one go, he was out of his mind.

“Your turn,” said Russia, turning to England with-- was that a predatory smile? England backed away, until he ran into a wall. “I think you should take your shirt off now.” Hands trembling slightly, England complied. Then he looked up at Russia, surreptitiously. Suddenly, he shot a hand out, aiming for the other man's hair. Russia caught his arm. He looked disappointed. “It is your turn,” he said. “Not mine. It can be my turn later.” 

England looked over at the glazed expression on Prussia's face. “Fine.” he said, and stripped off his shirt.

There were already red lines down his front, from Prussia's fingernails. Russia traced them, almost lovingly-- England thought of burning cities and crops, and shuddered. “It feels nice, I think,” said Russia softly. Then, fast as a snake, he drew his arm back, and smacked England across the face. 

Through the pounding in his head and groin, he looked up at Russia, disbelieving. “What did you just do to me?”

Prussia was laughing. “Oh man,” he said, “you should see your face.”

Russia turned around, smiling sweetly. But his voice was threatening when he said, “I think you should be quiet now.”

Prussia shut up.

Russia met England's eyes, and petted the side of his face. “It's turning red,” he said, softly.

England closed his eyes, fighting the urge to lean into the other man's hand. “Of course it's turning red, you fool.”

“I think England doesn't mean the things he says,” Russia said to the air. “I think he wants this. I think he wants this very much.” When his hand met England's skin for the second time, England couldn't help a gasp. “It hurts, yes?”

“Of course it hurts,” he said, eyes still closed.

“But the pain is good, isn't it?” England was silent, and Russia drew away. “Answer me,” he said, softly.

“Yes,” said England, just as quiet. “The pain is good.”

“Good,” said Russia, and hit him again.

The next few minutes were a haze of sharp pain, sharper pleasure, all tinted by the red behind his eyelids. He could hear Russia's voice, but he didn't pay attention to what he was saying. He wasn't sure he'd ever stood and let someone hurt him like this, and when Russia pulled him away from the wall and towards the bed, he didn't fight him. 

“Finally, we're going to fuck him,” said Prussia. 

“No,” said Russia, with a kind smile. “We're going to fuck you.” Prussia sputtered. Russia ignored him. “You will like it more,” he explained.

“Besides,” said England, opening his eyes. “You owe us for Jena-Auerstedt.” Prussia didn't reply. Slowly, slowly, he turned over. England... Prussia must be carrying more guilt then he'd thought. He almost felt bad. Then he found himself tracing the curve of Prussia's shoulders with his eyes, the way his waist narrowed, the rise and fall of his back. He stayed silent.

Russia reached under the other man, and undid his belt and pants, sliding them and the shorts underneath down to his ankles. Prussia's breathing quickened. Maybe Russia was right; maybe he was going to like this. Russia stood between his legs, leaning down to whisper in his ear. Prussia moaned quietly, hips moving helplessly against the bed. England realized with resignation that they were going to dirty his bedspread. He would have one of the colonies clean it.

Russia turned to England, making a twisting motion with his fingers. England only understood because he'd been thinking along the same lines himself. He took out a container of balm-- he'd stretched himself before the other two came, he hadn't expected the conversation to go on so long-- and handed it to the other man. Then Russia was whispering again, and Prussia's moans were getting louder. There was a sharp gasp and Russia's fingers were in him, too fast, or it would have been for England. But Prussia's legs were spread as far as the pants around his ankles would allow, and his hips were rocking against the bed, and muffled by the bed came sharp cries. Long before England would have been ready, Russia was gesturing him over, handing him the container. “He likes it hard,” he said, loud enough for Prussia to hear. Prussia groaned.

England-- England was unsure. He didn't harbor any particular grudge against Prussia-- and really, it was supposed to be him lying on the bed. But it wasn't the sort of thing one turned down, was it? So he slid his pants down and slicked himself, and lined them up with trembling hands. He was ready to press in slowly, to give them both time to adjust, but then Russia was there, biting his neck and pulling Prussia's hips up towards them with strong hands. Prussia nearly screamed, and England would have remembered the sound for blackmail if he were sure he hadn't done the same thing. Russia laughed, gleefully. “A nice time, yes?” he said, loud enough to be heard over both their breathing. 

Prussia groaned and pressed back against England, breathing shallow and fast. “You really are a whore for this, aren't you?” said England, in wonder. Prussia shot him a venomous look over his shoulder, but bucked his hips back, demanding. England shook his head at the strangeness of it all, but started to move. 

 

“Too slow,” said Russia, and England felt a stinging pain across his back-- his belt, he realized. When had Russia gotten that? Then Russia was beating him for real, and between the heat around his cock and the pain in his back, he could feel his eyes beginning to tear up. Russia was laughing and Prussia was screaming, and it wasn't long before England was coming the hardest he had in years. Prussia came not long after, thrusting back against England until the end, throat full of incoherent noises. 

England stayed still for a moment, holding himself up through sheer force of will, until Prussia said “Uh. England?”

Arms were around him, lifting him up, and he found himself cradled against Russia's chest. “That was very nice. Yes?” 

Remembering suddenly, England looked down at Russia's crotch. Nothing. “When did you...?”

Russia winked-- England gawked at the incongruity of the expression. “We Russians, we are sneaky.” Prussia snorted.

England fixed his pants, and found his shirt. Prussia still hadn't moved. “Well. Ah. That is to say-- is that it, then?” 

Russia eyed the third man on the bed. “Yes, I think that's it. Prussia doesn't look like he wants anything else. Isn't that right, Prussia?”

Prussia made an indistinct noise. This time England let himself feel smug.

He cleared his throat. “In that case, ah... Perhaps we should be going.” 

Prussia jumped on the cue, and sat up, pulling his pants up and heading for the door at the same time. “Yeah. Uh. Good plan. Uh. Well, see you after the campaign.” And then the door was closing.

But Russia looked hurt. “We can't stay for a while?”

England looked at him, dumbfounded. “Stay?”

“Stay,” answered Russia. “And, what's the word-- hug?”

England's look stayed blank. “You want to cuddle.”

Russia's expression brightened. “Cuddle! Yes. I want to cuddle.”

England cringed on the inside, and ran through all the ways he could get out of this situation. Then, without knowing why, he said “...alright.”

**Author's Note:**

> *During the Napoleonic Wars, England put together no less than seven coalitions; they included everyone from Russia, Prussia, Austria, and Spain to Sardinia, Naples, the Papal States, the Ottoman Empire... the only country that was at war with France the whole time (excepting the year between 1802 and 1803 called the "peace of Amiens"-- when England and France were totally banging) was England. As you can imagine, he's a little bitter about that.
> 
> *The Battle of Torgau was a decisive Prussian victory during the Seven Years' War. The Battles at Jena and Auerstedt were pretty devastating defeats for Prussia. They took place during the Second Coalition (the only other Coalition that Prussia was part of), after Prussia had been involved in the war for only 19 days.
> 
> *1793 was when the First Coalition was formed. Obviously, I have no idea what would have happened if Russia had joined the war then, but England obviously thinks things would have been different.
> 
> *The Treaty of Paris (or, the Treaty of Paris that England is thinking about-- there have been about a dozen of them) ended the Seven Years' War. It was signed by France, Spain, England, and Portugal, who all, it seems, jumped into bed to finalize things. Wiki says: "The treaty marked the beginning of an extensive period of British dominance outside Europe."
> 
> *The Union of the Crowns was the first time Scotland and England were ruled by the same monarch. England in this world doesn't really like getting in bed with Scotland.
> 
> *The Nine Years' War, also called the War of the Grand Alliance, involved pretty much frickin' everyone. This being Hetalia, we can safely assume that a lot of people fucked a lot of people.
> 
> *And then they had a lot of sex that doesn't require history notes.


End file.
